The Ritual He Knows
by mincing them words
Summary: Dean Winchester has small panic attacks sometimes. He thinks of them as spawn-induced PTSD.


Dean-centric. No special warnings. Well, some angst.

Disclaimer: I own this disclaimer, my creativity and my intellectual property. No Dean.

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Sex is what it starts with. It's familiar. The assurance of drowning into an oblivion, to everything but the lust. The familiarity of feeling body heat consume him, clench around him, burst out inside him, spread till it is diffusing to right under his outermost layer of skin, frying up his brain until all he can do is move move move, till it's screaming inside him, surging, building, soaring and he can only draw up tight, shuddering, rutting like a man possessed until it's all too much, just a step away, just one more and he's spilling out of his skin and he knows nothing but the moment.

Sex feels larger than life. Dean has always needed something outside of the one he leads.

He doesn't know why he sometimes talks as soon as these moments pass. They're like an interlude between knowing and not knowing. Suspension.

Then his brain is catching up, faster than he can catch his breath. And he knows everything again, feels the weights that are even more familiar than sex, nestle back into their lived-in homes inside his chest. He's known them since a fire burnt his mother to a crisp, seared itself into his chest and started the civilization that has only thrived since. He was only four. But that didn't stop the fuckers from fucking like mice and birthing litters.

Dean doesn't look at the fire or what it burns of him. He looks at his brother and his father instead. And lives vicariously through them.

It's a ritual he knows. There is comfort in certainty and rituals. He knows the remedy for him is to fix his family. He doesn't have strength enough for them all to be fixed. What he does have, are clear priorities.

It's usually doable. He's had time to learn.

He's had time to learn a lot of things, in fact. But he never taught himself to talk the second the climax fades away, and his clingy bitch of a life comes running back to him in desperation. Like he's married to her or something.

There's always a solid impact when it happens. As she greedily wraps him up in a death grip, like she's dying of hunger, and fusses around inside him, meticulously setting everything back into order. She does it till his chest feels like her home again, till she has fixed up all her offerings for him, just waiting for him to come back to everything they have built over the years.

Dean figures she has OCD. He never goes home.

And yet, sometimes, he talks about the one that hits too hard. When the bitch and her mice bring him new spawn that consumes him, clenches around him, bursts out inside him, spreads till it is diffusing right under his outermost layer of skin, frying up his brain moving moving moving, till it's screaming inside him, surging, building, soaring and he can only draw up tight, shuddering, just a step away, just one more and he's spilling out of his skin and he knows nothing but the moment. He knows nothing but the pain.

It breaks pattern. It isn't familiar. It fucks up his clear priorities and he feels nothing but the new pain, held in his chest. It hits him like the worst acid trip of his life. And sometimes it torments him enough before it nestles and builds a home for itself in his chest, that he talks about it. The moment his throat eases up and his heart stops trying to beat right out of his chest, he talks about it.

Dean Winchester has small panic attacks sometime. He thinks of them as spawn-induced PTSD.

Once he's done talking to someone he will never see again, he walks out. He won't come back. He won't break pattern. He won't look at anyone who knows. He won't talk about it again.

As he dresses and leaves the room, he takes utmost pleasure in knowing that his clingy-bitch wife is probably upset with all the attention he just showered on the new kid in town. He can afford to be a dick to the family in his chest. They wouldn't leave. They're the only ones who seem to want him enough to always stay. Hold his hands, fingers intertwined. Never leave his side. Never leave him alone.

It is only fair, he thinks. They are the only ones he's ever been able to keep safe.

He looks back at the bed before he walks away. He's leaving something with her.

Sometimes, a girl catches a glimpse of what he puts on his shoulders. And sometimes, she still looks at him the right way.

Sometimes, he just wants to stay.

She knows.

These moments are like an interlude between knowing and not knowing. Suspension.

He told her.

Dean doesn't look at the future or what it holds for him. He looks at his brother and his father instead.

He never goes home.

It's the ritual he knows.

I think you should leave Dean some love in your comment. Also feel free to leave me anything from love to creative criticism


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